


Kyle II

by StAnni



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Established Relationship, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 14:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16704382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: He knows that she is not going downstairs to the party.  He knows that she is probably ripping the lace hem from the dress that he bought her and is climbing out a window to escape the Manor, to escape him.  He knows that, just like he knows that she will be back, perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow – but she always comes back.





	Kyle II

Bruce finds Selina on the balcony and walking out towards her, he can see that she is tense - the stiffness in her small shoulders, a coat, which he recognises has his, clutched tight around her waist. The lavender lace at the hem of her dress, already a little tattered from her pacing, sways silently from the bottom of the dark coat. It is late fall and the air is cold and dead. Somewhere behind them, below them, somewhere everywhere else in the manor, music is playing and the almost whispery din of people talking is like an underlying current in the air. 

 

She gives a half-glance back and he stops, so she offers, quietly, “Just taking a break, Bruce.”

To that he does take a tentative step forward and he is close enough to touch her, to put his arms around hers, holding tight to herself. But he doesn’t. Instead he states the obvious, at a loss “This party is for you.”

There is a shake of her head and he can imagine the eye-roll. “Which is why I need a breather.” There is frustration in her voice, and it is something that is familiar to him now. They have been, slowly, growing at odds and her frustration grains against his irritation, but he keeps himself from saying anything else, balling his fists in his pockets.

But like she knows, because, she simply does, she flicks a glance at him, eyes narrowed “What, do you want me to follow you back?” to which he responds, always ready for a fight, “Yes. This is your party, these are your guests, you can take your break after.”

The problem with having known each other since they were children, is that there is no distance between them anymore and certainly no sympathy for discomfort. They are two sides of the same coin, though fiercely protective of each other, they are both, unfortunately, impulsive and even cruel. The problem, however, with having known each other since they were children, is also, the only glue holding them together – a lack of sympathy for discomfort eventually makes you ignore the discomfort.

Selina looks away from him and takes the coat off, her gestures clipped and short – angry, and Bruce sighs – he didn’t have the intention of upsetting her today, but as usual, the inner instinct to jab first won out. “These are your guests.” She says plainly as she walks past him, dropping his coat on the floor. “And I didn’t ask for a party.”

He knows that she is not going downstairs to the party. He knows that she is probably ripping the lace hem from the dress that he bought her and is climbing out a window to escape the Manor, to escape him. He knows that, just like he knows that she will be back, perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow – but she always comes back.

*

She does indeed come back, later the same night, and her dress – or what is left of it – is flung over the side of the lounge sofa on which she sits, in just her underwear, absorbed in some reality show – the volume turned down for his benefit – and eating ice-cream from a carton with the back of his gold Visconti. He sits down next to her and watches her lick caramel goo from between the grooves of his fifty thousand dollar pen. Her green eyes travel lazily from the screen to him and she scoops a small glomp of ice-cream and offers it to him. “Caramel Delight flavoured Visconti?” He takes the pen and gets up, shaking the caramel from it and putting it on the side table. “You missed the party.” He says, standing a few feet from her. She eyes the discarded caramel on the floor, before she looks back to the screen, turning up the volume “I hope you don’t expect Alfred to clean that up.” And he doesn’t, of course, so he doesn’t need to answer her as he watches her ignore him, picking at the ice-cream with her finger now and deliberately kicking her naked legs up on the couch and laying back. She breathes a lazy sigh and shimmies into a comfortable position, her short-short briefs tucking down slightly. 

She is, as always, very clever.

Bruce, knowing that him staring at her near-naked body is exactly her game plan to get out of an argument, lifts the dress from the couch and looks at it. “Everyone said you looked lovely” he tells her, hoping that it will prove to be an olive branch “I thought you looked lovely.”

She doesn’t bite right away, but she does eventually sigh, clearly also sick of the chill between them, and looks at him, putting the ice-cream container on the floor. Her voice though quiet, is resolute “Thank you for the dress, Bruce. But don’t expect me to go to your parties.”

It hurts, it does, and he doesn’t hide it – what would be the point and he looks away. “It was for you, Selina.”

Selina, who may argue with claws out, does seem to feel bad and looks at him until he looks back at her, this time possibly attempting an explanation she tries “Bruce, I love you. But that party was wretched – and it wasn’t for me – and I am not going to another one ever, ever again.”

This time it doesn’t hurt, it scratches and Bruce, irked at her bluntness, drops the dress back on the sofa and silently squares off. “You’re in a relationship, Selina.” To her credit, she does see the exact moment that he gives up giving up and she meets his even gaze, with a cold stare of her own “Yeah, you are too, Bruce. It’s a two way street. It’s not always about what you want.”

And it is a fair comment, and it is not the first time that it has been said to him – and not the first time that she has said it either, he understands where it comes from and he understands the sentiment behind it. 

Unfortunately, however, in a town like Gotham, it usually is about what a Wayne wants, and the outside reality bleeds into their inner world quite often – often enough that Selina is also well aware that while what she says is fair, it is not true. So she doesn’t wait for a response.

She gets up and shoves past him, heading to the bedroom, leaving the ice-cream container to melt on the floor and the television blaring in her wake. Bruce knows that Selina is anything but inconsiderate, that she is acutely aware of her footprint in the Manor and that she tries to keep the areas of her influence very small. But he also knows that she is still pissed and that her forcing him to clean up after her, is her way of exerting some measure of control in a house where she doesn’t always feel at home.

*

When he gets upstairs, after having cleaned up the lounge, she is not in bed, but in the ensuite, staring at her face in the mirror. Her expression is pensive and he is quiet. "I liked the apartment better." She says. He knows and she knows that he knows. "This haunted house..." She trails off and tiredly shakes her curls loose.

She is still, and will always be, the most beautiful woman in his world, and he cannot take his eyes off her. She eventually rolls her eyes – her demeanor softened considerably “Stalker” she teases and he smiles. He takes a step closer, leaning over her from behind, and she leans back, letting her curls move softly against his face. Her eyes are on his in the mirror and, as usual, just having her close, makes him hard. He gently moves against her and she grins at him "My, my" she says as he slips his hand into the front of her briefs, pushing them down and leaning in to feel her. She exhales as he slips his finger inside, and turning her face against his neck and pushes back softly against him. "Here or in the bed?" she asks and he answers her, his voice low, as he unzips himself and gently but firmly pushes her forward, letting her grip the edge of the marble vanity top for purchase, already breathless. "Here." 

 

It is different - rougher and almost more desperate this time. He pulls her back to turn her around, to lift her up, but she shakes her head and pushes back against him, reaching back to pull him deeper. When it is over, after he lets himself spill inside of her, crowding her down, he sees it. A fresh, deep, scrape along the inside of her neckline. 

“Sorry.” He says about pushing her down and they both know he doesn’t mean it as he leans back from her, pulling up his zipper. As she bends down to pull up her briefs, the scrape is clearer when she comes back up. It is deeper than a scrape, in fact, it is a cut - clearly made by some sort of blade.

After staring at it for a second, he touches it and she hisses in surprise at him “Ow, stop.” He doesn’t take his finger away though, and frowns at her, quietly pulling her neck up so that she can face him. “Where did you get that?”

She disengages from him and turns around, she answers him in the mirror, avoiding his eyes “Just a tumble” and she moves past him, into the bedroom. He doesn’t move, feeling the wave of frustration building again, and she sighs audibly behind him “Come on, I thought we were good now.”

The thing is, they’re never really good – not these days. The used to fight and make up, but these days there are several fights before they make up and at times, most of the times, always, they skirt around the problems, fighting and end up just pushing each other down on any flat surface, fucking out their frustration without resolving anything.

So he turns, now set on getting answers “Where did you go today?”

She ignores the question as she pulls the sheet from the bed and closes her eyes to him as she gets in. “Good night.”

“Selina.” Saying it in just that tone, the one that he knows drives her up the wall, does produce a result. She growls, enunciating slowly “None. Of. Your. Business.”

He pulls her up by her arm, tucked beneath her curls, and she yanks back violently – they have done much worse to each other. “Bruce! Quit being such an asshole!” she shoves at him and he grabs her wrist again. “Tell me where you went.”

He knows that he doesn’t really want to know. He knows that she doesn’t really want to tell him, not because of her, but because of him – because she thinks that she is protecting him from the truth. But it is the same story and it has gotten old fast. “Am I going to read about an explosion tomorrow morning? Another bank robbery?” He has never, not outright, accused her or connected her to these crimes – not to her face, but seeing the vindication in her eyes at him mentioning it, he knows that she has been expecting it to happen. “What you don’t know, can’t kill you, Bruce.”

It is juvenile and pure spite, but sometimes Selina is simply juvenile and spiteful. He doesn’t let go of her wrist and yanks her back towards him, pulling her over to his side of the bed, her knees sliding on the sheets. “This stops, now.” He warns her. He means it. Silent and angry she waits for him to let go, and when he does she scrambles away, livid, to the other side of the room. “This? Is not something you get to decide, little billionaire.” She is angrier than he has ever seen her and he matches her anger like a lit fuse. “I wouldn’t test that theory, Selina Kyle”. He spits her last name like an insult, because he knows, to her, him calling her by her full name is an insult – immediately weighing her down to her past, to her mother, to the fact that she is beneath him. As with most insults, it feels good in the moment, but regret follows it like a cold chaser and he looks away from her immediately. “Let me be clear about this, Wayne…” She answers, stepping closer to him, undeterred in her anger “Because you don’t seem to get it through your thick skull. I don’t belong to you. I am not yours. I will never be yours.” She is less than three feet away and her voice is quiet, tearing through him “I’m the Narrows and you are Wayne manor. You won’t buy the Narrows out of me with ridiculous purple dresses and you won’t trick the Narrows out of me with your moronic parties” and a few inches apart, her chin raised in defiance “And you will not, ever, fuck the Narrows out of me. I am not yours.”

He has no words and after a second he steps back from her, simply staring at her – eviscerated. She watches him carefully and after another moment, she finally drops her gaze. Fighting is second nature to them both, but killing isn’t.

“You’re not mine Selina. You’re right.” He finally answers, agrees, his voice dull. “You should leave.”

She looks at him, surprised, the pain flashing in her eyes but he sets his jaw. They have broken up before, and he has asked her to go, yelled at her go, and also begged her not go before. But this is different. And they both know it.

His heart beats slowly, like a broken fist against a wall and the iciness of change, of defeat, sweeps slowly over him.

She shakes her head, taking a breath, “I’ll leave, I mean, if we can’t fix this…”

He stops her, dead “No. We’ve tried.”

*

The next morning he hears the front door pulls shut and when he goes down he sees her keys on the kitchen table, next to the Visconti that he rinsed off, the grooves blinking neat and clean in the cold morning light


End file.
